Recorded April 19, 2017, 12:49 a.m.
The phone’s light casts the scene in harsh, blue-tinged tones. Becca, hair a tangle, somehow gaunt though she is not one ounce lighter than when she stepped onto the road, waits for confirmation. She makes a soft sound, tongue against the back of her teeth, and bends again, this time her fingertips skimming the bared curve of Zachary’s brow before a fingernail flicks once, lightly, against a mushroom cap.
The whispers spin themselves together like spider silk. The voices are distorted but recognizable as Zachary Kent and Grace Winters.
ZACH: . . . get back to Becca.
GRACE: We need to think this through.
ZACH: What’s to think through? Separating is a bad idea. We don’t know what’s in this place. That spider—
GRACE: Zach. You’re a smart kid. Smart enough to divide by two. There’s three of us. That leaves a spare. Someone with no way out.
ZACH: We’ll find a way.
GRACE: Two of us are leaving here. And it will be easier if we make the decision now.
ZACH: You think you should be one of them.
GRACE: An organism strives first for self-preservation. Understanding that is the key to understanding everything else, don’t you see? There isn’t room for morality in survival. The road wants to survive. That’s why it calls us here. And we want to survive.
ZACH: I’m not leaving Becca behind. And she won’t leave me behind.
GRACE: Are you sure about that, Zach?
ZACH: Yeah. I’m sure.
GRACE: You know she doesn’t feel about you the way you feel about her. I’ve seen the way you look at her. You’re in love with her. She’s got none of that in her eyes for you.
ZACH: That’s not—
GRACE: I know more about this road than anyone. If you want to survive, I’m your best bet. Or you can risk your neck for the girl who will leave you the moment she gets off the road. You don’t think she will?
ZACH: I don’t care.
GRACE: Of course you do. And you should.
ZACH: If Becca doesn’t want to be with me . . . I’m not going to leave her to die just because she might break up with me. How psycho would I have to be to—
Zach grunts. Surprise and pain mingle. Judging by the location of the wound on the corpse, it is likely the blade has struck his lung, which explains why he makes little other sound. The edges of the wound are sloppy. One imagines the hand holding the knife working it up and down, sawing at the vulnerable cavity below the ribs, inexpertly wreaking damage. The whispers do not capture this, their silence merciful. They offer instead the sound of a body striking the floor, and the panting breath of the killer.
GRACE: Lost him. I don’t know what happened. He was right next to me. He was right next to me. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know where Zach is. He was right next to me. No—she’ll want to look for him. The spider. The spider took him. I don’t know what happened. One minute he was right next to me, and the next second the spider was there.
The rehearsal grows more precise with repetition. Grace takes a long breath.
GRACE: There. It’s better this way. Two of us now. No reason not to go.
The whispers fade.